


MIAMI

by Oswald



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Ideas, Eventual Sex, I promise, Idk what i'm doing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, More Characters to Follow, Violence, also this will be more light hearted then it comes across at first, dedicated to the sleek veneer of the 1980's, everyone is grumpy and makes bad decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oswald/pseuds/Oswald
Summary: OR: The Worst Road Trip Ever UndertakenJesse really needs to get a new jobA love letter to Hotline Miami, Synth Pop, the 1980's, and a Whole Mess of Bad Life Choices.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **unbeta'd** , warnings for non-graphic violence and sexual assault in this chapter

  
  


Looking back on it, __nothing__ about what happened was a good idea.

Ideally, he would have turned around, left the room and never looked back. He could hear the sirens in the night, after all - usually a sign to leave ASAP. Even the stupidest grunt knows to run from the fuzz, but at the time, something had rooted him to the floor.

He remembers how small, how dark the room was. Flowers made of neon blue giving the room an unnatural glow, the blood that pooled on the ground turning almost purple. Jesus H. Christ, the __smell__ , though. He'll never forget that smell, as long as he lives. Heroin has this kind of awful, burning, vinegar-y smell that stains everything around it. There was coke on the blood soaked tables, the white powder clumping in a red-white batter. The building is dead silent, the soft gurgle of blood in the lungs of the target is the only thing he hears.

That and breathing. Shallow, slow, exhausted breathing, like someone's run a ten mile race with no finish in sight.

In front of him is a body. A naked, starved, shaking, totally coked out... _Kid_.

  
  


Here's the thing: Jesse McCree is a lot of things, but he's not heartless. He's rude, he's tactless, he's got a mean streak a mile long. He's vicious, he's cruel at times, outright monstrous at others, and he smokes __way__ too much, but he is not heartless.

His fathers didn't raise him that way.

  
  


So when The Kid (because that's what he fucking is and Lord Almighty if it doesn't make him sick) looks at him with those blood-shot brown eyes and laughs at him, Jesse can't feel anything but pity. This town...this world, it __does__ shit like this to people. Makes them into...

well, Jesse was never one to call names.

  
  


“Go ahead.” The Kid spits out blood. Cum and lube coat his thighs. His entire body is covered in these marks that range from dark purple to wine red.

What a mess.

“Finish what you started.” The Kid throws up bile mixed with blood and something off-white (oh god, Jesse doesn't want to know what that is). There's this mess of gore on the kid's lower stomach – it looks like a child's bad science experiment. The blood and the heroin and the coke and the sex all fucking _reek_ – if he were a lesser man, Jesse would have puked a while ago.

  
  


Instead he looks around, finds a ratty blanket that's been tossed aside. The kid protests as Jesse drapes it over him and lifts him up. But then he stills, groaning in pain. His head drops onto Jesse's shoulder and, just faintly, Jesse can hear a sniffle. The Kid's body is so hot, he's practically soaking the blanket in sweat.

  
  


The sirens are getting closer. Jessie hurries to his car, gently puts the kid in the backseat, and prays to every god he knows for the engine to start.

  
  


The Kid's going to die in a day or two – Jesse can make him comfortable until then.

 

 

***

 

  
Well. This is quite the problem.

There's blood caked all over his backseat.

It's not coming up.

Jesse frowns, his arms akimbo. That was __leather__ back there, __real__ _leather_ , not that fake shit they try to hustle at the discount car lots! He was __never__ going to get those bloodstains out, what the __fuck__.

He plops onto the ground, frowning at the backseat. Sure, they made seat covers for this specific reason, but he doesn't __want__ a tacky seat cover ruining the aesthetic of his car. This was a real life Daytona Spyder, authentic, like the ones they drove in __Miami Vice__! He'd looked for this thing for _years_ ,the goddamned car cost him a fucking fortune and it's not like he has any more arms or legs to give over!

Heaving a sigh, he picks up his bucket and continues to scrub the leather. The ammonia burns his one good hand and the water is going to make his robotic one rust if he's not careful, but he is __not__ going to have some brat ruin his car. He'd seen it on google somewhere, you mix ammonia and dish soap together to get a good leather cleaner.

Jesse can't say he's all that impressed.

Somb's gonna have his hide when she hears about this...

Which is why he hasn't sent her a message yet. The last thing he needs is _another_ chewing out, thank you kindly.

He shoots an irritated glance at his apartment window while he cleans. That lazy bastard was __still__ sleeping. Part of Jessie wishes he'd hurry up and die already, he knows how to take care of dead bodies.

Barely functioning ones? Not so much.

But his fathers raised him better. So he'd brought the kid home. Had to sneak into his own apartment because it doesn't take a genius to figure out the kid was totally fucked up. He didn't need someone screaming murder and _really_ didn't need the cops sniffing around his door.

The kid vomited all over him as he struggled up three flights of stairs and Jesus H. Christ, Jesse just about dropped the brat right then and there.

Instead, he'd dragged him inside, disgusting blanket and all. Jesse stitched up his wound as well as he could, cleaned The Kid up and let him sleep in the (only) bed. The rest of the night consisted of trying to get the blood out of the carpet (there goes his security deposit) and attempting to keep the kid clean (holy shit, what the fuck was this kid eating?)

He loses two really nice mattress covers to this nonsense. Godspeed, he thinks.

  
  


  
  


***

  
  


The backseat looks as good as it's going to – he's got a friend at the local garage, maybe he “knows a guy”. Hell, who _doesn't_ “know a guy who knows a guy” in this town?

Heaving a sigh, Jesse throws the sponge back into the bucket with a grunt and wipes his hands on his jeans. He pours the rest of the acrid mixture into the bushes (He keeps an eye out for the landlady. She'd give him hell if he ruined her honeysuckles) and opens up his ratty car cover. The poor thing's covered in leaves and practically falling apart, but every little bit counts, right?

There's something of a process for living in “hiding”. With his lifestyle, you have to be inconspicuous as possible. Driving a daytona spyder when half of the block has hovercars probably isn't all that inconspicuous, but the best kind of hiding is in plain sight, right?

Besides, it's __Miami__.The old folks like that kind of style, hell, the __young__ people like that kind of style. It's something of a mindset in the Florida heat – the old ways are the best.

It's pleasantly cool in the stairway. The landlady sure as hell doesn't skimp when it comes to air conditioning and it's been a fair December, considering. The Florida humidity hasn't been as fickle and there's even been a nice breeze.

The old lady on the first floor is making her Thursday night pupusas, the smell wafting up the stairway. The girl on the second floor is blasting Sade again. There's a peace that comes with the apartment, an intangible happiness that seems to seep into the floorboards.

It's the closest thing to _home_ Jesse's had in years. New Mexico is a long forgotten memory and Oregon is a bad dream he's got no interest in reliving. Sure, his job isn't... _ideal_ , but it pays the bills, puts food on the table, clothes on his back.

And he's got something he hasn't had in a long time: _Freedom_.

Freedom from responsibility, freedom from guilt, someone took the chain off the dog, and he just took off running. Considering the political environment, maybe he shouldn't really feel like that but __watch him run__.

And so here lays Jesse McCree, Miami or bust.

  
  
  


 

 

***

 

  
There's blood in his carpet. __Again__.

  
  


That's the thing that Jessie's grimacing at.Not the barely standing Kid, who's stitches are now torn open, who looks about to throw up, who's pointing Jesse's own FNS-9 at him.

The Kid will be easy to handle - another twenty minutes of cleaning will not be.

“I'm going to give you thirty seconds,” The Kid threatens (it's like a wet kitten trying to hiss), “And you're going to tell me where the hell I am.”

  
  


“Yer gettin my carpet dirty again.” Jessie grunts, putting the bucket aside and taking off his flannel. The Kid still points the pistol at him, his grip wavering. It's hilarious.

“Where the __fuck__ am I and who the fuck are _you_.”

“ _ _And__ yer pullin your stitches back out. You know how long it took me to get them right?” he walks over to his couch and plops down, unlacing his boots, “'bout as long as it took me to clean the sick off'a you. __Four times__ , kid. I don' know what the fuck yer eatin, but it smells fucking rank comin' back up.”

The Kid looks fairly embarrassed at that comment, but he still stands in place. Jessie spares him a glance and then grabs the remote, flipping on the tv. There's nothing on, there never is, but maybe he can find one of those really corny, state-issued soap operas.

“You....I just asked you a question!” The kid's bordering on hysterical now, “You've got five seconds left – Where-”

“Will ya stop yellin? The landlady don't like yellin durin her nap!” Jessie snarls, snapping around, “I ain't getting scolded by her _again_ , she's gonna raise my rent if I get 'nother one of her nastygrams!”

The Kid just looks incredulous at this point. Part of Jessie can understand – he'd probably be pretty dumfounded if he woke up, half stitched together in a place he didn't know.

Still, the kid could be a __little__ grateful, couldn't he?

“Sides, you still got the safety on, ya dumbass.” Jessie sits back, “Ain't yer daddy teach ya how to use one'a those? The hell they teachin kids now a days.”

The Kid's mouth opens and closes like a fish – he's at a total loss. Jessie turns back to his television.

  
  


__

“ _–reports, a spokesperson for the State said that time was needed to consider the bills proposed by the opposition and that they will be looking into this issue. The Government has refused to comment on the topic of political prisoners, stating that such an issue is for “the conspiracy theorists”. The DOW Jones Index reports a decrease to the already low_ – “

  
  


The Kid's sloppy. Jesse hears him a mile away – the whistle of air as the butt of the gun comes down on where his head used to be.

Jesse's old, but he's still pretty quick. He grabs the kid by his thin wrists, gives it a good yank and suddenly, the kid's in his lap, flailing and cursing the entire time. The gun clatters away and Jessie's _really_ grateful that none of the guns in his house are loaded (a fact the kid would have known if he'd bothered to fucking check, Jessie thinks grumpily).

The Kid's still flailing and hollering up a goddamned storm, and there's blood splattering everywhere from the broken stitches and the moment he spits something in a language he can't understand is the moment that he's plucked Jesse's last fucking nerve.

The Kid's smart enough to freeze when Jesse's hand snatches him by the neck – it's almost...funny, in a sick way. Jessie's hand spans the kid's throat – one good squeeze and he's finally got some peace and quiet.

Instead, Jesse leans in close. Close enough that he can hear The Kid's frightened heartbeat.

  
  


“Now I've been real patient.” he says in a voice that offers no room for argument, “and I've been a real nice guy and I don't take kindly to people who ain't got a lick'a gratitude. I had a _long_ day and yer starting to give me a headache. So here's what we're gonna do.”

He shoves The Kid on the ground, watching as the kid bites back a howl of agony. The Kid pins him with the most menacing glare he can manage, his mouth twisted into a barred teeth snarl.

“Yer gonna crawl yer ass back into the bedroom 'nd yer gonna lay down and stay quiet until I get my shit together. And then yer gonna let me fix up yer stitches and yer gonna behave yerself until yer mended to my satisfaction.”

Jessie stands, looming over The Kid.

“And then yer gonna get the __fuck__ out of my house. Understand?”

He can practically __hear__ The Kid grinding his teeth.

"What if I don't want you to "fix me up"?" He snarls and Jesse's honestly pretty impressed. There's a lot of fight in a kid he'd assumed was going to die two days ago, a fair amount of gumption for someone who hasn't got a snowball's chance in hell.

"Then yer more than free to bleed out in the hallway." Jesse steps over him and crosses the hallway to unlock the front door, "Ain't no difference to me. __Yer__ the one wastin my gauze."

Jesse holds it open for him (which, in the scheme of things, isn't smart - but at the moment Jesse couldn't give a damn).

The Kid's frown deepens. And then his snarl softens to an almost pout. He shakes his head "no", and grips the edge of the sofa, struggling to stand. Jesse closes the door slowly.

The Kid stumbles to his feet, grunting and wincing at the pain in his side. He gives a sharp noise when Jesse loops his arm around his waist, but slowly eases into Jesse's hold.

Together, they limp into the bedroom, a trail of blood droplets following them.

“What'd they call ya?” Jesse grunts, helping The Kid lay on the bed. The Kid says nothing, still frowning. His fingers twist into the dirtied bedding, his teeth biting into the inside of his cheek.

Jesse sighs again, “Look, I'm not real interested in a roommate that I don' get 'long with, so let's at least got on a first name basis, right?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, looking at the trail that's followed them.

“I'll start: 'm Jesse.” he says gruffly, “So what'd they call you, kid?”

“I am _not_ a child.” The Kid snaps. There's that gumption again.

“I didn't call you a child,” Jesse clarifies with an amazing amount of patience (for him), “I called you “kid”. And that's all I'm going to call you if you don't give me a name.”

The Kid twists his fingers into the bedsheets again.

“Genji.” He grumbles, staring at the ceiling.

“Well now, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> What do I do when I'm five minutes from a mental break down and total self-ruin?   
>  Write fanfiction, that's what.   
>  whee~   
>  One of the more interesting tropes I've seen of Genji is of being really...light-hearted almost? I genuinely imagine him (and McCree to a greater extent) to be very introverted and very hostile in situations he doesn't fully comprehend. I almost see him like a porcupine that's ready to spray quills the moment anything even looks like it's about to turn south. I guess it's a situational thing?   
>  Fun fact: Genji was supposed to say more. And then I realized I really need more practice writing Genji lmao
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Yo, I'm always looking for a beta, so if you wanna do it, hmu
> 
>    
>   
>  **Find me on[Twitter](https://twitter.com/OswaldSleepy) and [Tumblr](https://oswaldsleeping.tumblr.com/)**  
>   
> 


End file.
